


Blood on his hands and the truth on his face

by TormentaPrudii



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Choking, Close calls with death, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, No happy endings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Proceed with caution, Running from problems, Self-Doubt, Self-Hatred, Self-Sacrifice, Serious Injuries, Trying to get back into the sad, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, alcohol withdrawals, close calls with loss, harming a loved one, implied alcoholism, low to high angst, low to high sad, violent PTSD episode, whumptober2019
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2020-11-22 13:57:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 6,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20875364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TormentaPrudii/pseuds/TormentaPrudii
Summary: All angsty prompt works are getting chucked in here from now on.MIND THE TAGS.Tags will be added and changed as needed.





	1. Shaky Hands

_ “These are your friend.” Angela holds up a medkit showing it to the occupants of the room like a storyteller showing children the pages of a book. “You each have one in your kit for a reason. There is usually only one healer for each mission in a team of five and they can’t always get to you in time. So use. The goddamn. Medkit.” _

Hanzo used the medkit exactly how he had been shown. It’s contains littering the ground by the pathetic excuse of a couch in the safehouse. He sits on the edge of the couch, hands pressing along the compress and self-adhering wraps holding the biotic infused bandages in place on McCree’s side. Checking his work.

A single lucky shot. A single shot that almost—

Hanzo slides off the couch onto the floor, on leg out the other bent to support his elbow. He’s tired. He’s dirty. He’s sore.

He’s shaking.

No, his hands.

His hands are shaking. Tremors vibrating up into his arms and shoulders. His hands shouldn’t be shaking. 

They weren’t shaking before when he ripped open the medkit. There were no tremors as he pressed the gauze into McCree’s wound, McCree letting out a hiss of pain, stemming the flow of blood so dark it was nearly black. They were steady and firm wrapping the bandage around McCree’s middle, under the stare of tired eyes resting in a face far too pale for Hanzo’s liking. No, they didn’t shake despite the silence in the safehouse. Silent aside from the ragged shallow breaths McCree drew. They should have shaken then when there was too much blood and not many signs of the cowboy’s resilience Hanzo had seen in past missions. He wasn’t cracking quiet jokes or reassuring the one tending his wounds that he was fine. Nothing a few shots of whiskey and a good night’s sleep wouldn’t fix. His hands should have shaken, they didn’t.

Yet now, as McCree drifts into his mind from exhaustion and loss of blood, Hanzo’s hands shake. He clenches them into fists to stop the quaking, wills them to stop. They continue to defy him. The danger is passed. His hands shouldn’t be shaking. It doesn’t make any sense. McCree is fine. Hanzo is fine. They are safe, they are together.

They almost weren’t. McCree almost—

Hanzo presses his fist to his mouth to muffle the gasp letting out all the distractions he’d thrown to the side the instant he heard the wet thud of a bullet hitting McCree. All the things he’d ignored to focus on a singular task, get a medkit to McCree. 

But something more made his shaky hands reach out and grip McCree’s. 

Fear. 

McCree almost—Hanzo almost lost— 

Everything. 

  
  



	2. Explosion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Explosions aren't anything new to Jesse. Neither are the feelings it brings down, but doesn't mean he likes it one bit.

Explosions have always been defining moments in Jesse McCree's life. They tear apart aspects of his life and at this point he's so used to it he doesn't bother to look in the rubble. Because what's the point of picking up the pieces to rebuild when it's all gonna go sky high when the clock runs out again. Might as well warn those you can, pack a bag, and hit the road. 

He knew the other shoe would drop in time. It always does. He’d hope it wouldn’t, probably why he’s caught by surprise mid mission. The building is blown to pieces less than a hundred feet to his left, it teeters on its failing support structures, groans under it's own weight making it buckle into and onto itself. 

Sighting a glint of gold silk swallowed up by dust and smoke stops his heart cold. 

Hanzo.

His guardian in the sky. Ever watchful dragon at his back. 

He's running to the building hiding his face in the wool of his serape, an old familiar act, running into a burning building, a collapsing building but the building doesn’t last in the time it takes him to get to it. The dust settles faster than it should have at least that’s what it seems like to him. Panic does funny things to the brain’s sense of time. Now facing the rubble with Hanzo in its depths, dread explodes in his chest. His throat constricts, his mind runs wild. What if...what if…. The grief forms before the thought does, prematurely breaking his heart.

Then something else tumbles out of the pieces of his heart. 

Something he knows stems from his sense of survival. His own self preservation instincts that have served him well over the decades. The driving force to him cutting his losses and turning his heel, guilt biting at his ankles but not hard enough to stop him from walking away. The part of him biting at the tethers tying him to anything. A piece of him growing larger over time after each explosion scattering his life to the wind, that sees everyone as an anchor, a liability, a bomb with an unknown fuse to take his world out in a fiery explosion. 

The part of him releasing a plume of relief while his heart thumps against his chest with terror at the possibility the explosion freed Hanzo from this world thus freeing McCree to walk away from the rubble left in it wake.

And McCree hates it. 


	3. Delirium

Hot. He’s hot. He kicks off the blanket but it sticks to him. He kicks and kicks until finally the room’s cool air hits his skin, as he falls. He falls and falls then he isn’t. He grunts when he hits the floor but its cool. So cool against his hot skin, hot breath. 

“What are you doing on the floor?” 

“Hot.”

“Easily enough to fix. But you must get back into bed.” 

Hands touch him, pull on him. No, he doesn’t want to leave, he doesn’t want the hands. He fights them, pushes them away from his skin but they are strong and burn against his skin. 

He swings up away from the coolness, groans at the loss. Plunged back into softness and heat. 

Hell. He's got to be in hell.

He feels the hands against his skin again, but they don't burn, they swipe over his skin leaving the barest of a chill trailing behind. Comforting. He slaps the hands away again. He doesn’t deserve it. Rather burn alive for his sins.

“Off! Get off!” He fights again. His attempts are pathetic he knows somewhere in his mind that isn’t wrecked by withdrawals. 

The hands retreat and he searches for his bottle or flask. Hands smacking clumsily, swiping things to the floor.

“Where...where?!” He rolls over and grabs at the night stand.

“There’s nothing.”

He’s definitely in hell when Hanzo Shimada’s face sharpness into view.

“Why ain’t I killed you yet?” 

Hanzo clenches his jaw shut to not spit out the response at the tip of his tongue. 

“I promised I would. Why ain’t I…” 

Hanzo lets McCree continue to puzzle aloud Hanzo’s continued existence. He steps to the bed, washcloth in hand, wiping the sweat from McCree’s skin while he’s distracted in his own mind.

“ ‘m dead?” 

“No.”

“Why you here?” 

Because they got trapped by a storm in the middle of nowhere in a safehouse with essential supplies that didn’t include alcohol. After a few days of going dry McCree was in full swing of going through withdrawals. Hanzo knew on the first day. The shakes and sweats, irritability. He didn’t expect the delirium. Didn’t expect the harsh words. He should have. It’s a path he’s well versed in. But it was pointless to explain any of this to McCree. He wouldn’t care or rather believe the tentative friendship they’d started after shedding blood together on the battlefield. Hanzo muses he could probably tell him about the growing feelings of wanting more than friendship and McCree wouldn’t remember but he figures caring for him while he spews out cutting words is punishment enough.

“I also made a promise.”

“Hmph.” McCree watches Hanzo work for moment. “Must be biding my time….” He thinks aloud. 

Hanzo folds the cloth placing it on the table, replacing it with a bottle of water mixed with electrolytes. He pushes the bottle to McCree who blinks at it before taking it and drinking deeply.

The thought had crossed Hanzo’s mind. Being raised as he was, he’s always suspicious of those around him. It’s why he resolved to keep his budding feelings to himself. While McCree may not be waiting for the moment to strike him down when he least expects it, Hanzo can’t ever fully trust the man simply wants to be his friend. It’s never that simple. Not for a Shimada. Not for Hanzo.

McCree finishes the bottle, letting his hand drop. “Ain’t killed you yet….” He stares hard at Hanzo’s face.

“I should. I promised.”

“Yes, you should.”

“But I like you.”

“I like you as well.” Hanzo says knowing McCree will not remember hearing or saying the words.


	4. 3 in 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Human shield/gunpoint/dragged away
> 
> An old debt to be settled.

“That’s it, easy does it. Little to your left. Perfect.” McCree winces as a hand on his waist pushes him to the left with the barest of pressure. His arm is on sparks periodically sending jolts of pain into his entire nervous system. His sight is blurred at the edges, threatening to white out with pain at the wrong move. So he steps gingerly to the left. Tries to not heave for a second time. He wants to grab the gun in his captures hand put the barrel in their mouth and pull the trigger. But his feet are heavy and his knees are looking for any excuse to give out. 

“See weren’t so hard. Keep going. Soon you and me will be outta this whole mess.” They walk, McCree dragging his feet, stalling for time leaning heavily on the wall with his free hand. 

“He’s rather determined, huh?” McCree doesn’t understand focusing on his steps being one infront of the other. 

“Release him.” He knows that voice. He lifts his head searching for the speaker, for Hanzo. 

He’s yanked off the wall as he turns to look, the motion is too fast and off balance, he swings his arm out to act as a counter weight without thinking. Realizing too late his mistake. He screams as fire burns up his arm down his spine and to the rest of him. Everything snaps to white then black. He doesn’t pass out just wishes he had, he hears his pained wheezing through clenched teeth. 

“Jesse!”

“Ah, ah, ah, wouldn’t wanna risk hitting your man now do ya? Or risk my finger slipping on this trigger.” 

McCree is more or less draped over them. An arm snaked around his waist to keep him centered and upright since his own weight is pushing him back flush against their front, seeking any means of stability. The side of his face pressed against theirs, he can feel the heat coming from their body, the smell clinging to their skin and clothes, feel the muscles of their jaw move, the vibrations from them speaking. It's rather intimate being a human shield for someone.

“Give him back.” Each word clear and promising violence.

“Aw, ain’t that sweet. You always did like them a bit on the possessive side.” 

“Now!”

“You’ll get him back when I’m done with him. That’s a bonafide promise, however if you and yours keep harassing us, I can’t guarantee the condition the goods will be in upon return.”

To make their point they hit his arm with their elbow. McCree’s spine bows backward on its own, muscles spasm, joints locking in place. A metal rod white hot burrowing alongside his veins. He’s gasping for air when it’s over. 

“I will find you.”

“We’ll see about that.”

McCree looks at Hanzo, moving his lips but can’t form the words.

_ Take the shot. _

Again and again he tries to speak the words but he’s too slow and they are dragging him away and out of sight. 


	5. Stab Wound and Isolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Others carry knives that can wound us but that doesn’t mean they are the ones who wield them.

Hanzo held the knife, unaware of the wound it would carve into Jesse’s chest. Perhaps it would be his back. No, Genji was the one to plunge the knife into his back. If he was feeling dramatic and right now he was going to allow himself to be a bit dramatic. 

“You two are getting close.”

“Should we not?”

“No, that’s not what--I’m glad you’re making friends and having a good time. Just...be careful with McCree. He has a tendency to cut and run. When things get rough. Regardless of… attachments.”

McCree, broken free from being frozen to the spot at hearing the brothers voices, spun on his heel heading away before he could hear the rest of the conversation, one not meant for his ears. He turned around before he could feel the rest of the blade sinking into his back. He supposed he deserved it, truth be told. He doesn’t blame Genji, not with the edge of sadness his voice carries, can’t really, even if he wanted to, he'd only spoken the simple truth of the matter. He’d cut and run. Left Genji to navigate the fall of Blackwatch then Overwatch. Given the situation, it only seemed a fair warning. So like many other wounds he lets it be, neglects it instead of treating it. If he’s lucky it won’t fester.

He wasn’t lucky. 

It worked into his bones, to where he couldn’t stand knowing Hanzo had the blade that would cut into him at any moment. But it wasn’t Hanzo who drove the blade in, rather it was Jesse who picked it up, hand enclosed around Hanzo’s and pressed himself against the point, piercing it into his heart. Might as well face the inevitable, didn’t like being on edge wondering when he’d get another stab wound. Least that’s what he tells himself. In reality he was too cowardly, he didn’t want to see Hanzo’s face or hear his voice driving the blade in deep and twisting it. 

He took matters into his own hands by making their recent range and late night drinking sessions less frequent. But the wound festered, he began excusing himself from group outings or gatherings. People knew where to find him if they needed him. But he wasn’t around as much. He wasn’t unfriendly. He smiled, joked, and teased as if nothing were wrong, each time he emerged from his room or other hiding place on occasions that were rare, or if someone caught him on the firing range. 

The wound festered still, poisoning him. Hanzo and Genji were both trying to get their history sorted and they didn’t need him around to make things even more complicated. Things were going to get complicated. Because Jesse enjoyed the dry wit Hanzo had, appreciated his smart ass remarks too much. The new agents didn’t need a drunken outlaw with a bounty on their head hanging around. He didn’t need the bud of joy and fondness, of nostalgia to lull him in false security. Things he told himself over the days, weeks, and months. Best it be cut out.

So he did it, himself. 


	6. Shackled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some shackles are of our own making.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short because I”m tired of looking at it.

Everyday his shackles pull him down to the ground. Everyday he straightens his back, chin held high after he puts them on. Shackles of his own making. He binds himself in chains and heavy weights, dragging behind his every step. Shackles forged long ago and far away, shackles he’s carried for years, kept them oiled, free of rust, least they grow weak and break. They’d become a part of him, he didn’t know how to be without them. So when he’s told to leave them behind, to take them off, cast them away in a way, a simple way, he’s angry. He tightens the cuffs and wraps himself in the chains as tight as he can possibly make them. 

He’s scared.

How does he move without the weight on his limbs? Limbs that have cut down his own blood. How does he protect those around him if he isn’t shackled? 

They don’t understand.

“Forgiveness, brother.”

“Darlin’, trust me, trust yourself, you ain’t gonna hurt no one.”

They are wrong. He knows the things he has done, he knows what he is capable of, he will not allow it to happen again. He will carry on shackled for the rest of his life, it's what he deserves.


	7. Unconscious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Always hope they open their eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short because tired of looking at it. 2nd person because I had an idea but decided to move on.

Unconscious. It’s how you found him. You rounded the corner, saw him propped up against the wall not moving, and your heart stopped. At least you hoped with everything in your body and soul, he was only unconscious. His face was so grim. Hard lines and dried blood. You weren’t used to seeing his face like this when he was unconscious because every time you’ve seen him unconscious he’d been sleeping close to you in the bed you both shared. 

You're used to his hands seeking out your own hands or waist, the spot over your heart. Not clutching his side with one, the other gripping his weapon of choice. His legs would be tangled with yours not pushing away the dead mercs on the ground around him. 

You take shaky steps towards him, wondering if in the quiet of the morning before the mission, when you rolled over to find him sleeping, rousing at your touch, was the last time you’d see his eyes open.


	8. Don’t move

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gravity is a cruel mistress.

Jesse swallowed, the only motion he dared to allow himself. Keeping his breathing even, his hands from reaching out and gripping something, anything even though there was nothing to grasp within arms reach. He doesn’t shift his weight an ounce in either direction to possibly reach something. 

“Don’t move.” Hanzo’s voice came from inside. Jesse looked around, but not down, he never looked down especially in this instance where the ground he stood on was transparent between the extensive web of cracks. Had to be glass, he thought with a touch of humor, of course the balcony would be made of glass. He almost wished he was standing on a frozen lake, the safety net of freezing cold water beneath him. Here there was just 43 stories worth of air between him and the ground.

“Ain’t got much of a choice, darlin’.” Jesse whispered. Jesse closed his eyes and murmured a prayer to no one in particular. He can hear the team shouting over the comms rushing to get to him. Hanzo inside the actual hotel room searching for something to throw him for him to grasp then be pulled to safety.

To be fair, Jesse muses while he waits, the architects of the building probably hadn’t accounted for an explosion to occur in the penthouse. Most of the glass walls that provided a stunning view had been blown out, McCree was flung through one onto the balcony that was entirely too big to be called a balcony. But of course had a glass floor because why the hell not. He was about five feet from the edges railing, and a good twenty from the room. 

He’s trying with all his might to remain motionless. He wants to bolt. Run across the spider webbed pane of glass that’s plenty thick enough for Jesse, a gmabling man, is mulling the idea over real hard, but Hanzo told him not to move and he had a better view of the state of the floor. Hanzo was frantic and it hurt Jesse’s heart. He wanted to comfort despite him in the one in a precarious position. Inside he can see Hanzo cutting a sheet into strips and tying the pieces together. Such sure hands moving quickly. Determined and quick thinking,

“I love you.” Jesse speaks into the comms so Hanzo can hear him. He knows everyone else can hear him too, he doesn’t care a lick right now.

“Stop it.” Hanzo’s voice is steel, calm in the storm like always. 

“Don’t say it enough.” Jesse spies a crack making its way out slowing from his left boot. His heavier side, given the arm.

“Stop! Don’t move.” Hanzo is gathering the joined sheets up in his arms, picking his way to the edge of the room. 

It was a bit like watching lightning crackle across the sky in a summer storm. Beautiful and deadly. 

But there was no crash of thunder. 

Just a scream from Hanzo booming after Jesse’s soft gasp of surprise at suddenly being weightless.


	9. Stitches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cut by cut.

Hanzo sits next to him, telling a story of one of the numerous jobs he’s done in his time as hired gun, well, hired bow Jesse supposes. He’s in a good mood and is talking with his hands and stops to laugh before Jesse gets the full picture of why exactly something is funny.

A frequent occurrence between the two after months of slowly, cautiously, becoming friends. Both of them had a more than healthy dose of compentivines in their bones, so their friendship started during training skirmishes. Then to bets during their off times, each showcasing their marksmanship skills at the practice range. Neither able to turn down a challenge. Their penchant for a night cap sealed it.

Eventually it became this. A quick return to their respective quarters to grab a bottle and a glass after a session at the range, reconvening on the cliffside they’ve more or less claimed as their own. 

So Jesse waits with a drink in his hand and smile at the edge of lips, tucking his face into his glass, stifling his laugh when Hanzo finally unravels the humor of the situation. Taking a deep drink to numb himself because Hanzo’s smile is as quick as a switchblade and cuts deep. 

He supposes one day he’ll learn. He’ll realize falling for a man as sharp as Hanzo Shimada will cut him to pieces if he isn’t careful. When he gets over the thrill of someone quick enough, sharp enough to get past his defenses. 

That after he’s stitched his defenses together over and over, there’ll be nothing but coarse threads that won’t have anything to hold together, leaving his heart open to be cut.

But today isn’t that day. 


	10. Adrenaline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jump start that heart.

McCree yanked the drawer out so hard the contents went flying. Packages of syringes already filled with fluids litter the floor, Jesse dropping like a rock to his knees, scrambling to find the right one. He yanks out another drawer, more syringes. 

“Jesse, did you find it?!” Genji’s voice is high with panic. 

“I’m looking!” 

He searches looking for a substance that’s freely flowing through his own veins. That’s making his heart thunder in his ears in time with the motion Genji repeats with his hands clasped together, pressing again and again and again on Hanzo’s chest.

Everything has gone to complete and utter shit. The mission was a botch as soon as they touched ground. And then somehow the power of Hanzo’s guardians was thrown back into his face.

Genji was screaming, having pulled out his own guardians when Hanzo took a half step back, so similar to when they had first reunited, crumpling to the ground half a breath after the dragons faded to nothing.

Jesse ran in, scooping Hanzo up, the three retreating. 

“JESSE!” Genji calls over his shoulder.

“SHUT UP!”

Genji turns back to Hanzo, counting the compressions, hearing Angela’s voice in his head to keep the proper tempo, when to give a breath and how to hold his face.

“No, no, no, no. You can’t do this.” His lips moving in a frantic whisper. “You can’t. I just got you back. I just got you back. No. No.” Genji’s sweat drenched hair sticks to his forehead and the nape of his neck. So much has happened in the last few years. The two of them have come so far. They’ve worked through so much. It wasn’t easy, it was a fight the entire time. They shouted and argued. 

They crossed lines.

They apologised. 

They went to arcades and had ramen eating contests.

They went on double dates. They embarrassed each other with childhood stories.

They were brothers, for the first time since childhood. Tears streamed down Genji’s face. 

“Move!” Jesse shoulders Genji out of the way, pulling the cap of a needle off. He counts the ribs of Hanzo’s chest, his other hand poising the syringe over one specific spot. 

Genji watches as Jesse doesn’t hesitate a second, hammering the syringe into Hanzo’s heart.


	11. Tear-Stained

Their mission was complete. The damage to the facility was done and now it was time to get to the extraction point. 

Hanzo wasn’t the first one there but he wasn’t the last. He’s pacing on the ramp of the Orca, Lena already has the engine warm and ready to go as soon as the last set of boots are accounted for. 

An explosion rumbles the ground and Hanzo grips his bow. Genji, Fareeha, and Jesse have yet to make back. Ana’s hand on his shoulder squashes the urge to dash out. 

There’s only static over the commlink. Talon’s attempt to disorganized and cause their attack to fail. But they’d prepared for it. 

From this distance he sees a streak of blue light arc into the air, firing missiles to the ground, before diving back down out of sight. 

They were joking hours ago. Genji and Fareeha trying to gang up on Jesse and Hanzo. The two fully capable of deflecting and counter attacking their younger sibling’s teasing with expertise gained from years of carrying the title of big brother. Ana was sitting quietly smiling, drinking her tea, a happiness shining in her eyes. 

Genji makes it back first of the three of them. He’s out of breath, his sword is covered in blood. As is his armor. Ana sweeps in and hauls him 

“They separated us. They--” He coughs wetly and terribly. Hanzo’s muscles tighten over his body. Ana gets to work, starting a biotic emitter. Lena is twisting in her seat eyes darting around.

Fareeha lands on the ramp. Her armor is also covered in splatters of blood. Dented and burned.

“Go.” Her voice cracks over the short word. 

“Where’s--?”

She pulls off her helmet, her tear-stained face answering the question he doesn’t finish. 

Ana wraps her arms around her daughter, eyes looking out for her son one last time before closing them tight. Genji throws his helmet across the cargo bay, digging his hands in his hair, a rare show of him losing control, giving into the anger still within him. Hanzo lifts his hand to his chest, a pain so sharp it confuses him, makes him blink rapidly. Lena’s face drops like a stone, returning to the control panel, starting the engines, closing the ramp.

Shutting the world out, as one by one their faces become stained with tears.


	12. Pinned Down

Hanzo screamed, his hands planted firmly on a chunk of concrete pushing with the remnants of his strength. It doesn’t budge. His arms flop to the sides, spent. He pants, brow covered in sweat and blood. He can’t move, pinned down by the rubble of a collapsed bridge. His comm is lost. He’s surprised he’s even alive. Yet there is no voice in his head speaking of his foolishness.

Because it just made sense. 

He didn’t even have to think about it. The bridge was coming apart behind them and beneath their feet, why wouldn’t he use his arms powerful from pulling a bowstring for decades to clamp down on Jesse’s metal hand, redirecting his own momentum and raw strength to spin and then fling Jesse to safety?

It’d just made sense. 

Jesse wouldn’t have been able to jump like he could the last three to four meters. It just made sense, a non-brainer as Jesse would say. 

It made sense but it still surprises both him and Jesse. Jesse gives a yelp, chucked into the air without an ounce of grace, long legs scrambling to get his footing. The supports under the heel of his boot falling from beneath him. 

Hanzo falling with it.

He tried his best to jump off pieces of falling debris, calling on years of training on obstacle courses to keep him above it all. He doesn’t hear Jesse shouting his name. He does look up in time to see a massive section of the bridge coming down. He moves as best he can, the image of Jesse’s face smiling fueling his muscles. The memory of Jesse’s scent and touch focusing his vision to assess his falling number of options. 

It’s been...hours at least. He’s sure he lost consciousness. Awakening in darkness not an unfamiliar scenario for him. The rubble had one of his legs pinned, a slab on concrete over the top half of him, just enough space for him to not be flattened into paste. He pushed and wiggled and kicked until his energy failed him. He screamed and shouted to no avail. 

He panics for a bit, breaths coming in short and fast. He sleeps or passes out at some point.

At another point he does the hard math. The size of the bridge and the amount of debris to sort through. The likelihood of rescue before compression injuries, internal bleeding, dehydration and starvation take their toll on him. He digs around in his pockets and pouches. Finds one of his old burner phones. He removes the password. He records messages until the battery dies. 

Then he waits.

He did his best, he tells himself again and again. He did want he could, he got Jesse to safety. He can be satisfied with that, his last act, saving a life rather than taking one, saving the man he cherishes. 

An honorable act.


	13. Asphyxiation/Trembling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesse has an episode in the middle of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \--- WARNING ---
> 
> Chapter deals with a violent PTSD episode where Jesse harms Hanzo. 
> 
> Do not read if you think it may trigger you. 
> 
> Jesse is how I work through my own PTSD so this may be a bit rougher.

The framed photograph, the clock, a glass of water, a pair of glasses, everything within an arm’s reach gets swept to the floor off the nightstand. Hanzo’s reaching for the comm device, but he can’t stretch far enough from the middle of the bed, his fingertips don’t even graze the edge of it. His hand slaps the surface of the table over and over but he just can’t reach the comm, its distress button facing him like a cruel joke.

He gives up and brings his only free hand back, the other trapped in the blankets and sheets still holding their shared warmth, his fingers scrambling, nails cutting, drawing blood along the column of Jesse’s neck. Nothing. Hanzo pounds on Jesse’s chest, tries and fails to slap or punch his face just out of reach with Jesse’s long arms and torso straightened above him too far away to touch. Nothing. He bucks to get Jesse’s weight off of him but he doesn’t move an inch the blankets again trapping him in place on their bed. He can’t do anything to loosen the hold Jesse’s metal hand has on his throat, stopping all air from entering his lungs making them burn. Darkness creeping into his vision, his thrashing slowing and losing strength. 

Jesse’s face is completely blank. His eyes don’t see Hanzo’s mouth opening and closing, doesn’t hear him letting out small grunts and gurgles, grimacing in panic. Doesn’t feel the legs beneath him kicking against his weight and their favorite comforter. Hanzo’s eyes rolling to the back of his head, brows up and pleading, don’t cause him to blink. Nothing registers. He’s trapped in his head, in another time, in another place.

The bang of a door being kicked in snaps him awake. He blinks finally able to take in his surroundings. Hanzo is limp beneath him. His hands falling off Jesse’s forearms to the mattress. Jesse recoils back then is ripped off the bed. 

Genji has him pushed to the ground, bodily blocking him from Hanzo, whose coughing and sputtering on the bed, Angela at his side looking him over. A soft gold glow lighting up the room. 

Jesse’s entire body is trembling back pressed against something solid and unmoving, knees drawn up to his chest, collecting the tears falling off his face. 

Later he’s outside, smoking. There’s a bag as his feet, packed with only with the essentials. 

He thought he had a handle on managing it, because there was no cure for the damage left by years of trauma. No amount of golden biotic glow could fix him. The bruising on Hanzo's neck, his voice raspy, shows he doesn't have a handle on shit. He almost wishes it was Talon’s doing. Then he’d be able to be angry at something, blame someone. Wring their necks while they slept. But he can't. There's no one to be mad at except himself. There's no one to blame, but himself. 

The heat from the cigar starts to burn his nostrils, his lips. He drops it to the ground then stares at it before grinding his boot onto it, snuffing it out. He dips down, picks up his bag, and heads out into the night.

The trembling hasn’t stopped.


	14. Stay with me

“Stay with me.” Jesse isn’t asking. Doesn’t even dare to leave the option for Hanzo to decline in any other way except fully and of his own accord.

Hanzo stands a step away, his hand clasped by Jesse’s the only tether to keep him in place. Keeping them connected. Jesse’s fingers weak but trying with all the strength in his body to hold onto Hanzo’s hand. 

The words are heavy and hang in the air. Hanzo’s chest contains a storm of emotion. Whirling and fighting against his ribs. The want, just as heavy as the words, pulls and throws the sea of fear in him trying to beat it away. But the sea is far deeper.

Hanzo knows if he turns, looks Jesse in the eyes he’ll do it, he’ll stay, which is why he doesn’t. But if he stays, the cuts will only get deeper and he can’t bear to wield that blade. Jesse doesn’t deserve that pain. He squeezes Jesse hand starts to pull away.

“Please.” 

Jesse’s begging now. He’s desperate. Hanzo can hear it in his voice he’s sure of it, he’s sure it also cuts into his heart. He regrets having to play a dirty card like this, but the guilt is nothing to the pain he’ll feel if Hanzo walks away.

“Weren’t your fault darlin’. It--”

“It was. It was my fault. My feelings for you put you in danger.” Hanzo finally faces Jesse laid out on the bed with tubes in his body and wires monitoring his vitals, to solidify his choice.

“I am saved by your existence. That someone exists that could love someone like me. That I could love at all. But I can’t be the reason you die.” 

Hanzo squeezes Jesse’s hand before slipping out of grasp and out of the room.


	15. Scars and Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May or may not be inspired by Salt's [ fic ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18217718/chapters/43099178)

They’re sitting together. At one time it was such a rarity. They never had the time. Always busy with missions and training, with fixing gear and briefings. Before moments like these were so scarce. So treasured by the two of them. Stealing away in the shadows before and after meetings, quick kisses and hurried whispers of affection before boarding the Orca. Each moment too short, bittersweet. 

But they have a lot of time, now, for these moments. 

Sitting quietly together, sharing a meal, a drink, or just each other’s company. Moments that should be precious, coveted. 

By the heavy look in the eyes of their friends and family, none desire the time they have to share with a loved one.

Jesse runs his thumb over the back of Hanzo’s hand. Sweeping the scars there. Thin lines that can barely been seen, barely be felt. It had been a slow motion, cautious to the point of near paralysis, to reach out across the table and scoop Hanzo’s hand up into his own. 

When he first saw them, the lines drafted on Hanzo’s skin were pink, not fully healed, medical advances be damned. They covered his entire body. Scars upon scars he didn’t know the stories of like he did the others. Other scars that he’d kissed and traced. The new scars made Jesse have to take a deep breath and swallow down the bile threatening to escape. Over time the scars became white as he...recovered. 

Physically at least. 

Hanzo’s fingers curl into a ball. A nervous energy rising from the conflicted notions in his head, the want to remain still for Jesse because that’s what Jesse wants, but Jesse  _ wants _ him to do what he wants too. If he wants to be touched or not, wants to answer questions or not. He wants Hanzo to voice his wants and discomforts. This was a discomfort, he’s unsettled by the affectionate gesture. The touch too soft, too caring. He thinks he should enjoy it. Should want it. But he can’t decide which words to say, which want of the many wants to follow.

Jesse retracts his hand, sliding it back to his side of the table.

“S--” Jesse starts, but the words turn into a sigh because he hears Hanzo’s, old Hanzo’s, his Hanzo’s voice chiding him softly,  _ You have nothing to apologize for _ .

It’s true. Doesn’t mean Jesse can shake the sinking feeling in his chest everytime this Hanzo stares at him blankly. The time they had erased. Another thing to add to the growing list of things stolen from Jesse by Talon. 

Angie said recovery would be a harsh road. 

Jesse can already feel the scars starting to form.


End file.
